Only Family Left
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Their dad may be gone, but he didn't leave them alone.


**Only Family Left**  
K Hanna Korossy

He was pretty sure sometimes he'd go insane if not for Sam.

_The Simpsons _was on, one of the cool parody episodes, but Dean kept stealing glances at the figure bent over the table, writing. Carefully recording their last hunt, the ahkiyyinni, which was a first for Dean. He couldn't help a smile as he watched Sam carefully cut out an article from the local paper, probably the one that had drawn them there, and paste it in, the big geek. If his tongue had been sticking out of the corner of his mouth, it would've been like a thousand scenes from their childhood: Sammy drawing masterpieces, Sammy working on some top secret gift for his family, _Sam _doing homework. It had been a given that he be the one to update Dad's journal with new hunts.

Dean's smile stiffened. He couldn't go there. Couldn't think about…Dad right now, not that he was gone and especially not the _way_ he'd gone. Dean really would go nuts then.

He swallowed, eyes lingering on his brother's profile until Sam glanced up. Then Dean quickly shifted his gaze back to the TV.

"Dean?"

Oh, geez, please not another _let's talk about it _session. He loved Sam, he really did, and his little brother was all he frickin' had left, but if he tried to coax Dean one more time into opening up about his grief—as if that would do _anything _besides drown him in the flood—he swore, he was gonna engage in some fraternal violence. Sam was his best distraction, but he could also be his most painful reminder.

His brother seemed to take Dean's twitch of the head for acknowledgement, and continued as he stood and stretched. "You hungry yet?"

Dean's hackles settled. Oh. That was all right. Except for the face Sam would make when he saw how little Dean was eating, which in Dean's opinion was more than a little hypocritical, but whatever. He shook his head. "Just pick me up a cup of caffeine, huh?"

Sam stopped moving.

It took a few moments for that to register. Dean finally looked up at him with a raised eyebrow.

Sam was standing frozen, eyes wide and face white. As in, half-your-blood-volume-gone white.

Dean scrambled to his feet, mouth opening to ask what was wrong, maybe make the kid sit down before he passed out. Heart thumping hard against his chest because the last time he'd seen Sam look that bad, they'd been in a hospital and Dad…

But Sam was already taking off, slamming the door after him before Dean could do more than stammer out his name.

Crap. What had just happened here?

Dean sank back down on the bed and pushed his numbed mind into replay. Sam working on their notes. Asking Dean if he wanted some food, sounding totally normal as he did. And Dean saying no, he just wanted some coffee.

No, _caffeine_. A cup of caffeine.

Dad's term. The last thing Dad had said to Sam, in fact.

Dean swore under his breath and got up again to stride to the door. But yanking it open revealed only an empty parking lot, no little brother in sight.

His shoulders sagged, forehead resting against the wooden edge of the door for just a minute. He should go after Sam; he knew he should. God knows the kid had to be blind with pain. Dean would've had to be a total bastard not to realize Sam was grieving, too.

But…the thought of going out there, of staring full-on into that raw face begging him to make it better… Dean crammed his eyes shut. He couldn't. He just couldn't. Sometimes he was able to offer Sam some gruff comfort, but most of the time he couldn't bear his brother's pain on top of his own. He was barely keeping it together himself.

The kid would be okay. He wasn't stupid. He just needed a little space, maybe privacy to shed a few tears. Then he'd be back.

God, Dean hoped he'd be back. Even Sam's grief was far preferable to his absence.

But Sam didn't come back.

With no geek show to sneak peeks at, Dean's eyes kept wandering to the microwave oven clock, instead. A half-hour passed, then one, then two. Shadows lengthened outside, and the cool midday syndicated sitcoms gave way to lame after-school kids shows.

Two-and-a-half hours. Dean flicked off the TV and started pacing, fingers rubbing at the wedding ring on the chain around his neck.

Three. He peered out the window, then at his cell phone, and went back to pacing.

Three-and-a-half. Staying there was going to make him crazier than anything Sam's soulful eyes might throw at him.

Three and three-quarters.

Fluidly swearing, Dean grabbed his jacket and his keys, and stomped out the door.

Great. Now the only question was, where had Sam gone?

They were staying at the edge of town, as usual, which meant snow-covered fields one way, and civilization—if you could call small-town life that—the other. Sam was all about spending quiet time alone, but Dean considered the endless stretch of hibernating farmland, then turned away from it. No, he had a feeling Sam hadn't gone that way. Maybe a year ago, maybe after Jessica. But this time, with Dad, Sam's…loss seemed to send him searching for connections rather than shunning them. Figured he'd finally absorb Dean's lessons now, when all Dean wanted to do sometimes was lock himself in the room and never come out.

He turned toward town.

The first businesses weren't far, maybe a mile down the road. He could've taken the car, his newly refurbished baby, but it would be easier to miss Sam then. Besides, if Sammy could walk it, Dean could, too. He jammed his hands into his jacket pockets and started off down the strip of broken-edged asphalt.

He didn't know why he was drawn to the little girl, except that she gave him a glowing smile and that was unusual enough to slow Dean's footsteps. He stopped, hesitated, glancing around. In his leather jacket and boots, yesterday's five o'clock shadow still darkening his face, he was the kind of guy parents usually got nervous seeing around their kids. The last thing he needed was someone calling a suspicious cop on him. But no freaked-out mom was in sight in the tidy yard, and the girl was still smiling, and something in Dean couldn't resist the moment of innocence.

"Hey," he said with a smile as he approached. A real smile, because kids could tell and deserved genuine. He crouched down as he reached her, taking in the light brown pigtails under her parka and the kitten curled in small mittened hands. "What's your name?"

"Julie."

"Hi, Julie. I'm Dean. Listen, I'm looking for my brother—did you see him go by here? Real tall guy?"

She giggled. "Sam. He's _big!_"

He started, then grinned at her, sharing her joke. "Yeah, that he is." Sam wasn't always comfortable with kids, but he was the gentlest guy Dean knew, so the dimpled reaction? Not that amazing. "So he came this way, huh?"

She nodded. "He got Moe down from the tree."

Dean huh-ed. "Is that Moe?" He nodded at the kitten.

The pigtails bobbed again.

Dean reached out and stroked a hand over soft fur. "Sam didn't happen to say where he was going, did he, Julie?"

She silently pointed down the street in the direction he'd been going.

Dean nodded like this was a great revelation. He gave Julie a grateful smile, then stood. "You better take Moe inside now, kiddo—you wouldn't want him getting stuck in the tree again, right?" The sapling they were standing next to was barely taller than he was, but to Julie—and Moe—it was a sequoia. "And next time, don't talk to strangers, okay? They're not all as nice as Sam."

She smiled shyly. Okay, maybe message not totally received, but he'd tried. There were a lot of evils out there he and Sam would never be able to defeat.

He gave Julie a wave, watched her run indoors, then set off down the road again.

Slowly, the wooden two-stories gave way to smaller houses and trailers. Not a lot of people were outside besides the stray kid; they were too far near the Mason-Dixon line for a harsh winter, but the air was heading toward freezing with the approach of twilight. If Sam hadn't taken a coat with him, Dean would have gone after him hours before.

Still, there was some life evident, like the old guy sitting in a lawn chair in front of a tiny, rundown grey house, snow shovel propped beside him and his hands wrapped around a mug. Dean gave him a quick smile, started to walk past, then changed his mind and turned back, coming up the shoveled walk instead.

"Mind if I ask you something, sir?" he said respectfully.

The old man's eyes, pale under a fiery red knit cap, looked him over with a liveliness that belied his age. "What can I do for you, young man?"

That drew a small twitch of the mouth from Dean. "I'm lookin' for m'brother—I think he went this way? Tall, dark hair hanging in his eyes, little younger than me?"

"Sam."

Dean barely restrained an eye roll. What, did Sam manage to befriend the whole town in a few hours? While brooding? Not that Dean would have put it past him; when he was a kid, everyone on the block had always known Sammy by the time they had to move again. So much for the lessons on anonymity that Dad…

The old man shifted on the porch, snapping Dean's attention back to him. "Looked kinda sad, little lost, your Sam. But he still took pity on my old bones and shoveled the path for me."

Dean automatically glanced down at the bare pavement under his feet, the trail back to the street. "He did, huh? Well, that's Sam for ya. Didn't happen to mention where he was going, did he?"

The thin shoulders shrugged. "He asked me where the nearest coffee shop was."

Dean just barely managed a smile. "Thank you." He began to turn away.

"Hey."

He glanced back, to see the old man holding up a folded bill.

"Wanted to give him something for his troubles, but he disappeared before I had the chance."

Dean was already shaking his head. "No, sir, really, I'm sure he—"

The money waved at him impatiently. "You take it, young man. Give it away if you want, but I pay my debts."

They'd accepted gifts for services rendered before, sometimes from people who could barely afford it. But Dean knew about gratitude and pride, and only hesitated a moment before dipping his head and accepting the bill. He tucked it into his pocket. "Thanks. I'll make sure he gets it."

The old man smiled at him, all off-white teeth and pleased good humor. Dean gave him a half-wave and headed down the walk again, stopping as he reached the gate.

"Oh, uh, where's that coffee shop Sam was asking about?"

"Half-mile down the road on the right. Can't miss it," the man called back.

Dean kept walking.

The sun was brushing the tops of the trees now, casting everything into blue-white shadow. His breath crystallized in front of his face, and Dean tucked down a little more into his jacket. He really should have come after Sam sooner, but… He sighed. Wasn't like he had all the answers, big brother or not. Sometimes he pushed when Sam just needed quiet, and sometimes he was quiet when Sam needed to talk. Dean had gotten rusty in _Sammy _while his brother had been away, and then Sam came back different, grown up. Dean had learned again, had finally started getting it right more often than not, when Dad…

Dean growled low in his throat and kept walking.

A hardware store, bank, electronics store, and ice cream shop rolled by. Across the street it looked more like offices: accountant, lawyer, vet, and—he ducked a little more—police station. Then a McDonald's that gave way to more shops, and…there. A tiny coffee shop, a girl in a woolen winter coat sprinkling rock salt on the cement in front as if she were sowing seeds.

Dean glanced both ways along the quiet street, then jogged across. "Hey!"

A round face with appled cheeks turned up toward him. No more than a teenager, but his charm knew no age limits, and she broke into an awed smile. "Hey."

"I'm, uh, looking for somebody? My brother. Think he might've gotten some coffee here earlier?"

"He look like you?" she flirted shyly.

Well, no harm in making her smile, right? Dean's eyes crinkled. "Naw, more like a really big puppy—shaggy brown hair, sappy eyes?"

"Oh, him!" Her eyes lit up. Huh. Maybe his act needed some work. "Yeah, he was here about an hour ago. Bought a latte to go." Her lower lip pushed out. "He looked sad."

Dean cleared his throat. Yeah, nothing he liked better than sharing their issues with a townful of strangers. "Yeah, that's him. You see which way he went, maybe he said something…?"

Her nose screwed up in thought. "No, I don't think he said anything like that. But I'm pretty sure he went that way." She pointed down the street in the direction Dean had been going.

Dean grimaced, looking along the empty, darkening lane. "Yeah, thanks." He hesitated. "Hey…what _did _he say?"

The girl sucked her tongue between her teeth. "Um, just that he was passing through, and that I reminded him of somebody." She shrugged, friendly. "He was nice."

He'd been a little distracted to admire the opposite sex of late, but Dean looked her over again, taking in the long, curly blonde hair and the lively eyes. Oh. He nodded sharply, then glanced at the door behind her. "Hey, you guys still open? Can I get one of what Sam was having?"

A few minutes later, the old man's folded fiver tucked into the coffee shop tip jar and a steaming cup warming his bare hands, Dean headed down the street again.

Various other stores passed by. He paused at a bookstore, peering inside the window in search of a brown thatch of hair towering above the shelves, but no luck. The genius hadn't just walked through town and kept going, right? If he ran out of stores, Dean was going back and getting the Impala.

But after the last storefront was a small square of green. And on a bench in the middle of the park was the silhouette of a familiar, bowed figure.

Dean breathed out, pausing at the edge of the grass to look him over. Sam was okay. Dwelling, thinking, whatever, but he was okay. Chances were, it got cold enough and he'd come back. Okay, so Dean had had to haul his teeth-chattering six-foot-four in from the front steps a couple of times after Jessica, but this wasn't Jessica. In fact, Sam had been dealing pretty well this time. Better than Dean.

Or maybe Dean just hadn't bothered to look closer.

He shuffled in place, the toe of his boot brushing against the snowy green. He could leave. Sam didn't even know he was there. Back bent under a weight Dean knew too well, shoulders rounded forward: Sam wasn't seeing anything. His pain was palpable from thirty feet away, and even from that distance it was salt in raw wounds. Dean didn't know if he could bear any more. The coffee cup trembled in his hand. Sam didn't know he'd come after him.

Sam wasn't expecting Dean to come after him.

Dean started walking.

He was following footprints bigger than his own. Sam had made the same beeline for the bench. Dean dipped his boot in his brother's heel, toe falling short, still disgruntled and amazed that Sam had outgrown him by so much. There'd been days when he'd snuggled up in Dean's lap, freshly bathed and sleepy, ready for a story, and he'd fit just right. Dad hadn't read to him; Dean had.

He reached the bench, close enough to see Sam's breath, and the chapped hands clenched around the insulated coffee cup.

Sam's eyes shifted from the snow-covered ground to Dean's boots, but didn't venture higher.

Dean swallowed a sigh and dropped down on the bench next to him, shoving him over a little to make room. Then he slipped the cup of coffee—full and cold—out of his brother's hands, replacing it with the still-hot cup.

Sam stared at the coffee as if Dean had handed him a margarita. Which the big girl probably drank.

Dean took a sip of the cold coffee, made a face, and sipped again. Caffeine was caffeine. He had a feeling he'd need it.

Sam still hadn't said anything.

Dean waited a few more beats, then cleared his throat. "Drink."

Sam seemed to need time to make sense of that, but finally he tipped the container to his mouth. Dean wasn't sure he tasted anything, but at least the coffee would warm him a little.

He sank nearer to Sam, and spoke quietly. "You can talk to me, you know."

Sam tensed next to him.

"I can't…" Dean shifted on the bench, feeling the melting snow dampen his jeans. "I can't promise you more than that, man, but I'll listen."

He couldn't see Sam's face, that damned hair obscuring Dean's sight. But he saw the tear that dripped onto the sleeve of his brother's jacket, then the one that splashed on his wrist.

He braced himself for the ripped-open feeling that battered him whenever the walls came down. The denial Sam raged against was all that allowed Dean to keep going most of the time. But…it was Sam's pain he felt most keenly, not his own. His grief faded at the sight of his brother's, and that surprised him probably more than it should've. Sam's needs had always come first, sometimes a reason for resentment, but more often a lifesaver.

Dean didn't fight it this time. He just swallowed hard and dropped his arm over the curve of his brother's wide shoulders, holding on tight.

And Sam still fit against him just fine.

00000

Dean was exactly where he'd been when Sam had left, not that he'd expected anything different.

"Got a package from Bobby," he said as he walked into the room, tossing the brown paper-wrapped parcel down next to his brother.

Dean glanced up from the knife he was sharpening. "Yeah, he asked me last week where he could send us something." He picked up the package, frowning at the weight. "Didn't say what it was."

"Part for the car?" Sam hazarded from the bathroom.

"Nope, she's doing fine." The sharp blade _snicked_ through the paper and tape. "Figured it was another book for you to cram into the trunk, or a…"

"A what?" Sam called back, stepping out when he got no response. At the pallor of Dean's face, he was by his side a moment later. "What is it?"

Dean was holding a leather-bound book as if it were made of tissue paper. At Sam's question, a tremor ran through him, then he carefully opened the front cover. Sam had just enough time to catch a glimpse of the familiar print, the date printed in block figures at the top, and felt his stomach heave. Then Dean was slamming the book shut and shoving it into his hands, fleeing the room as if he couldn't breathe.

Sam sank down in his place, opening the journal with disbelieving hands, skimming through the pages. It really was. He sat for a moment, blinking back tears. Then he sighed shakily and stood, gathering the keys and both their jackets.

Dean was huddled beside the door, his body language screaming to be left alone. Sam didn't challenge him on it, just pressed his coat into his hand, then tugged on his arm. "Come on," he said gently.

Looking frozen and bewildered, Dean shrugged the leather coat on and followed him.

He got his brother into the front seat of the car, then climbed in on the other side and pulled out of the parking lot. The snowy landscape reminded him of the park Dean had tracked him to just a few weeks before, a half-dozen hunts and states away. Sam had grieved then, and since, but besides a few tears on an empty mountain road, Dean's grief remained locked down and denied. Sam wasn't sure the leather-bound book on the seat between them would make things worse or help.

They drove about ten minutes, Dean dazed through the first half of that, until he finally noticed the journal. After that, he couldn't seem to keep his eyes off the thing, although he didn't touch it. Sam silently watched both him and the book out of the corner of his eye.

It made sense, that their dad had kept another journal that last year when his old one was with his sons. He'd left them all his yellow-eyed demon research, but that had been impersonal, just raw data, and if Sam would have given it any thought at all, he'd have guessed there was more somewhere. It didn't keep it from feeling like he'd been sucker punched every time he looked at the thing, though, and he couldn't even imagine how Dean felt. Bobby should've warned them. Or maybe Bobby should've just burned it.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut for a second. He didn't mean that. God help him, he ached as badly to read the thing as he was to forget its existence.

He finally stopped the car in the middle of nowhere. They were in the north now, Michigan, near where he'd tracked down another rhakshasa while Dean had dealt with more human enemies, something else they didn't talk much about. There was nothing here but frozen land and trees as far as the eye could see, but the place had a stark beauty to it. And a peace that settled over the warm car and its two silent occupants.

"This is stupid, Sam," Dean finally muttered.

He took a breath. "Okay, so…you wanna just chuck it in the trash?"

Dean scowled at him. "No! 'Course not. I'm just sayin'…"

"What, Dean?" Sam leaned forward, the question careful.

His brother's jaw shifted.

"Dean?"

Dean rounded on him, arm flailing in the small space. "I don't know! Just give me a minute to think here, okay? Is that too much to ask, just a few seconds to work this out?"

"No." Sam sat back in the seat, suddenly quiet. "No, it's not. And I'm not pushing, all right? It's just…" He steepled his hands in front of his face, rubbing them up and down over his nose. "Look, man. It's just a book, all right? It's not gonna change anything or…bring him back."

Dean paused to glare at him. "Don't you think I know that!"

Sam dropped his hands and nodded silently.

Dean suddenly pushed the door open and got out, pacing to the front of the car. A moment, then he paced back. He paused briefly by the door, running a hand through his hair.

Sam leaned over to speak to him through the opening. "Dean, we can put it in the trunk," he offered. "For…maybe for later. We don't have to get rid of it or open it right now. Or we could ask Bobby to look at it. Just in case…"

"Just in case, what, he put in there what that yellow-eyed son of a bitch wants with you?"

Sam flushed and pulled back. He eyed the book with fresh trepidation.

There was a pause, then Dean slid back into his seat, slamming the door after him. Sam glanced up at him briefly, saw his brother open his mouth and close it, then glance away. Dean's brand of contrition. So was the muted tone. "It's…it's Dad's, Sam. We can't just shove it in a corner or pass it off to somebody else. We don't even know what he wrote in there."

Sam rested his hands on the steering wheel and tried not to think about that.

Dean's unexpected laugh brought his gaze up. His brother was shaking his head. "This is just like him, you know? Just when you start working things out, bam, he changes the rules on you. Changed," Dean amended, voice lower.

Sam's mouth quirked. "He always did have great timing. Remember that night he walked in right in the middle of us trying to clean up from that ketchup and mustard battle we had?"

Dean grinned wanly, but at least he wasn't shying away from remembering for once. "I remember all those hikes we went on where he'd suddenly announce we had to find our way back with a compass or spend a night out there without gear."

Sam chuckled; time softened most memories. All but the worst. His smile fell. "I, uh, could read it. Tell you if…"

Dean's piercing gaze was suddenly dead serious, too. "He was your dad, too, wasn't he?"

"Yeah, but… You know, if it's any easier… I mean, I wasn't…"

"You were," Dean interrupted quietly. "You are. You're just handling it a lot better than I am, man."

Sam swallowed, stared hard at the leather binding, then swiveled his head up. "That's 'cause I still have you."

Dean looked at him a long moment. Then he abruptly climbed out of the car again.

Sam watched him curiously until he disappeared behind the open trunk lid. There was the sound of rummaging, then the slam of the trunk. Dean flopped back inside the car.

He handed Sam a beer from the stash they kept in the cooler in the back, then flicked his own open with his ring and took a pull. His eyes on the stretch of wintery asphalt in front of them, he said, "Read it out loud."

Sam twitched an eyebrow at him. "Y'sure?" Dean still could barely stand to talk about their dad, face tight and pained at any reminder.

Dean just looked at him again.

Sam nodded, then hefted the book, the relatively new leather creaking in the cool air. He felt his throat curiously clog at the idea of opening it and seeing the familiar print, hearing his dad's voice through his pen.

Dean reached for Sam's sunglasses on the dash and put them on, then leaned back in the seat.

Sam reverently opened the journal.

_"October 4, 2005. I've left on my own hunt now, although Dean doesn't know it yet. But I have to do this alone…"_

His voice fell unconsciously into the deeper register of his father's. Sam read low and slow, the echo of John Winchester in the words both painful and comforting. He hoped Dean felt some of the latter, too.

There was less about the demon than he'd hoped—or maybe feared—and nothing at all about the way Sam worried he was different. The entries seemed mostly about John Winchester's movements that year, the leads he was following and the people he talked to and the few hunts he picked up along the way.

But there were some secrets in those pages. Like how their dad had hoped his phone call to Dean would send him to Sam. That he'd been the one to give Roy LeGrange's name to Joshua, and how relieved he'd been at hearing about Dean's healing. Sam was pretty sure he heard Dean make a small sound at that one, but didn't look over. The way their dad had kept close track of them all year, lurking in the shadows in Palo Alto at Jess's funeral, in Lawrence after Dean called, later in Wisconsin when Sam had been hurt and near death. He'd checked frantically after St. Louis to make sure Dean wasn't dead, and followed up Sam's Missing Persons case in Hibbing.

Nearly all the times Sam had cursed him for not being there, in fact, he had been, silently watching over them from a distance. The thought left his youngest more than a little stunned.

But far more so John's love and pride in his sons, unsaid but evident in every page. Some part of Sam wondered if his dad had known he was writing his final words to his children, if his lack of a real goodbye was because it was easier for him to say it on paper. The possibility eased an old ache in his heart.

By the time Sam murmured the last few words and gently closed the book, his face was damp. Dean's was turned away, but he was pretty sure he'd caught the glint of tears on his brother's cheeks, too.

There was a long silence. Then Sam said quietly, "You remember when you asked me on that mountain what I could say to make what Dad did better?"

He could see Dean was chewing on his lip, but his brother didn't answer.

Sam held out the journal where he knew Dean's peripheral vision would catch it, and patted the cover. "This is it, man."

There was a pause. Finally, Dean nodded, just a little.

Sam pulled in a deep breath_._ "Hey."

Dean's eyes dragged reluctantly over the dash toward Sam.

"You know you're not the only one who'd listen, right? If you wanted to talk?"

Eyes hidden by dark lenses but easily readable to Sam, swung up to meet his. Then Dean gave him a small smile, sober but genuine.

Sam nodded, first at him, then at the steering wheel. It wasn't exactly the walls of Jericho crashing down, but…it was a start. Another moment, then he reached forward to turn on the car. "Let's go home."

He could wait.

**The End**


End file.
